


Nor All That Is At Enmity With Joy

by blasted_heath



Series: Wings of a Gull [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Banter, M/M, Missing Scene, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 20:23:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17331746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasted_heath/pseuds/blasted_heath
Summary: James and Francis keep each other company on a dull evening, and Francis is not used to being stared at. And they most certainly donotargue over tea.Francis would not understand flirting even if James wrote "Hey Francis" on the nearest pointing-hand-directional-signpost between the ships.In the show timeline, this takes place a week or so after Carnivale. It was intended as a sequel to “Wings of a Gull,” but it easily stands alone. It really works outside the show timeline too, and is mostly based on historical evidence. The only show-specific episode it relies on is Crozier’s alcoholism and subsequent intervention.





	Nor All That Is At Enmity With Joy

**Author's Note:**

> _Our noisy years seem moments in the being_  
>  _Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,_  
>  _To perish never;_  
>  _Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,_  
>  _Nor man nor boy,_  
>  _Nor all that is at enmity with joy,_  
>  Can utterly abolish or destroy!
> 
> — William Wordsworth, “Ode on Intimations of Immortality” (1807)

The captain’s cabin on _Terror_ looked ominously bare. Ever since the ice had begun pressing in under the hull, thrusting the ship upwards and canting it to the port side, the task of keeping the furnishings in order had become increasingly fruitless. Weeks ago now, Francis had been obliged to have the central table re-positioned against the starboard wall, propped up to a level angle by means of stacked books and creatively rigged lines. The majority of the room was left nearly empty, stripped of any central furnishings and lacking even the oriental rug that had once given the space a warmer appearance. From the perspective where Francis sat in the dim lamplight at the jury-rigged table, it was as if _Terror_ had already been abandoned. It was only a matter of days, of course, until that would be true; soon the Terrors would all have been moved to _Erebus_ , and their own berth would suffer the ignominious fate of being crushed to pieces by the pack. And then... well, _then, Erebus_ would too be abandoned soon enough.

Francis’s mind wandered. How much longer? He imagined the ridge moving below him, imagined his ship strangled to death, the ice bursting through and rushing up to meet him. What would it be like, to die in the ice like _Terror_? Was it like drowning? _Lost at sea_ , he thought. Was it truly to be lost at sea, to be lost in the ice? 

A knock at the door caused his thoughts to waver, halting him at the threshold of some deeper dream. He shook his head, tried to rouse himself; he must have been drifting toward sleep. _Drifting_ , he thought. The ships were themselves drifting as part of the pack, helpless, at the mercy only of the Arctic… No. _No_ , he was supposed to say something, tell whoever it was to come in. Another knock, and the door was already opening by the time he heard the words coming from his mouth. 

“Francis?” It was James’s voice, followed by the sound of the man stepping through the door and closing it behind him. He was carrying a largish leatherbound book under his arm, and he must have left his greatcoat with Jopson already. It took James several steps forward to locate the man in question, seated as he was in the relative darkness of the corner of the room. He stopped, with an inquisitive look. 

“Were you honestly sleeping out here?”

“No James, just…” Francis waved his hand absently, “thinking.” 

“You do look quite distracted. Is all well? But it _is_ rather dreary in here. I should have expected nothing else from Francis Austerity Crozier, but…” 

Rather than allowing time for an answer, James went to find a match from one of the shelves, and went about lighting the as-yet neglected lamps. He finally crossed to where Francis was still seated, still looking distant, and reached over their heads to light the final lamp that hung there. Francis blinked. 

James was looking much better now than he typically had of late. It suited his renewed cheerfulness. At the very least he appeared better-rested; Francis could only hope he was feeling less overwhelmed now that he was no longer in sole command of the expedition. He seemed also to have made an effort to curl his hair into some semblance of its former style, although Francis could not conceive of how he had done so, since the ships’ dwindling coal supply meant that heat was itself rationed now. 

James leaned back against the table, precarious as it was, and gazed down at him. “What is it?”

“You’re the one who came to me, James. I am certain that I am the one who should be asking that question. Is this about the supply lists? For what will be going or left behind?”

“Not exactly.” James smiled. “I did wish to talk to you, but mostly because it was terribly dull on _Erebus_ tonight. Everyone has been rather preoccupied lately. Not that I blame them, thinking of everything that lies ahead…”

“You walked all the way over here, at night I may add, because you were bored?” Francis asked, incredulous. “It must be a very desperate sort of boredom if you will settle for the company of one whom you just called austere.” 

“You cannot conceive of it.” James pushed himself off the table and flung himself down again upon the bench that ran below the nearby window. 

Francis was obliged to reposition his chair to face him. “I must ask," he began, standing and pushing the chair to a better angle with his foot, "what led you to believe that I would be in any more a mood for company than everyone else?” 

“Surely you would not deny me now,” James said, affecting innocence, “since I have, as you said, come all this way through the cold.” 

“Your logic is inscrutable, James.” 

James extended one of his legs, and leaned forward. He looked Francis square in the eye. “Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?”

“You still have not answered my question. I came here seeking your company but I begin to think it is you who may be in need of mine. You appear to be wandering on the edge of melancholy again and I will not have it. What is it that is weighing on you?”

“I have only been busy. Nothing more. And incidentally, I am given to understand that I am always melancholy. You have often told me before.” 

“Ah,” began James, with a hint of regret. “But before,” he said, tentatively, “you did not always have my friendship. I should apologise for that, but there is no apology that will do, I suspect. I do not ask you to change your nature, only to tell me the source of your worry.” 

“There has been much to plan for, as you said.” 

“I have been rather occupied as well, but I was not sitting alone and staring into a darkened room. I will not let you fall down that path.” 

Francis looked absently about the room.

“Is it the _Terror_?” James asked suddenly. Francis’s eyes snapped back to him. “I know she has been your home for...years, even before we came here.”

Francis looked down at the floor, then back up. His gaze focused somewhere around James’s shoulder, but not his eyes. “I had been thinking about that, yes.” 

“I had been wondering,” James added quietly.

“It isn’t the end I had imagined for her,” Francis said, finally allowing bitterness into his voice. The idea of talking to James about personal matters came easier than he had expected, but he still felt the words themselves strain in his throat. “I feel like I have sent her to the shipbreakers before her time. And all she ever did was protect me. Both South and North, now. _Terror_ and I have been connected for the better part of the last decade… but now the ice has come for us both, and there is nothing either of us can do to help the other. It’s a dismal sort of goodbye.”

James nodded, slowly. “I am sorry for it, brother. You know there was nothing you could have done, but I imagine that’s the worst of it. There is so much, _too much_ , beyond our control here, and we’ve all felt helpless for too long...but you know that, better than any man. It isn’t for me to lecture someone who has seen all that you have.” 

Francis gave a wry smile, of the kind that was more truly a disguised grimace. “But I thank you all the same, James. It is kind of you to say you understand, although I wish you never had to.” He extended his hand, like a reflex, almost unthinking, palm upturned. James took it, lightly, linking the curved tips of their fingers around one another. 

James’s hand fidgeted, running a forefinger across Francis’s palm, or a thumb across the back of his hand. “So you were sitting here, hoping to observe everything, so you might remember it?” 

“Something like that.” 

“Well, if you would remember your last days on _Terror_ , I would suggest we try to find some joy here.”

A sigh. “You’re right, of course. I do apologise; you came over here hoping to find company and you’ve only found me being myself.”

“Nonsense,” said James. “But of course I’m right,” he added, in an exaggerated self-satisfied tone. 

Francis rolled his eyes, also an exaggerated gesture. “A right pain in the arse, I should have said.”

 

\---

 

“Remind me," Francis was saying. "What was your original purpose in coming here? You said there was something you wanted to discuss.”

It was late, but Francis had called on Jopson to bring tea. Several weeks ago, it would have been something stronger, but not now. And James was kind enough to abstain in his presence.

“Oh, nothing in particular. I told you, it was mostly a ruse to get me out of my own damned quarters.”

“Well what is _that_ , then? Could that be one of your famous journals?” Francis asked, nodding at the book that had heretofore lain unacknowledged on the bench next to James. 

“Indeed it is,” said James, smiling.

“How is it you still have any space left in those? I know you said you’d hoped to spend at least one winter in the ice—wouldn’t stop talking about it as I recall—but three? How much did you expect to—“

“Come now, Francis. Of course I left England well-supplied. Over-prepared, I thought, but you can be assured I am quite aware of my own tendency to write...at length.” He flashed a rakish grin, and swung his legs up onto the bench, leaning back against the wall. 

Francis laughed quietly, and glanced downward to the floor in a way that obscured the hint of an amused smile. Self-deprecation was not among James’s most forthcoming qualities, but he did have a quite charming ability to poke fun at himself, when the amusement of others was concerned. James was _always_ charming when the amusement of others was concerned. Francis wondered how long ago he might have noticed this, had he not been so set on keeping his conversations with the seemingly endlessly-optimistic young commander brief and strictly professional. Strange that it had taken Francis being ill and close to dying to forge a friendship between them. Earlier it would have been Francis’s worst nightmare to be trapped in a room with James and his interminable monologues, with no means of escape. But while he had lain in his own quarters, listening to James chatter idly about the daily goings-on of both ships, or about books he had found in the ships’ libraries, or about places he had traveled in the service (some of which were familiar to Francis as well), or about absent friends and acquaintances—and while most importantly, James did not leave in disgust at the sight of his captain, thus reduced and unable to move from his own bed—he found that he rather liked the man. And now—well, he wasn’t sure what _now_ was, but the time was not long past when he would certainly have never considered extending his hand to James under any circumstance. 

“Writing about how intolerable the captain of _Terror_ is?” Francis continued. “I hear he’s a dreadful pessimist and word has it that he is driving one Captain Fitzjames to madness.”

“Of course not!" James exclaimed. "You know that as an account of the expedition, I am required to present these to the Admiralty when we return. I am careful to only include my good opinions. Though now that I think of it, perhaps I should make some mention of your own glowing opinion of the Admiralty...” He tilted his head in mock contemplation, and looked inquiringly into Francis’s eyes. 

Francis laughed again, more fully this time.

“So what have you brought it here for?” His voice dropped to a more serious note. “Are you curious about how we shall best explain the abandonment to the Admiralty, even in your private account?” 

James started. “Oh, hardly that! In fact, I feel like I have rather run out of material lately. I promised to keep a detailed account before setting out, but things do get dreadfully repetitive out here on the ice. Certainly there is the...plan...to deal with, but it feels mostly like waiting, continuously waiting. I was hoping you might enlighten me as to some new particulars.” 

Francis felt that his expression was surprised, although he supposed that it should not have been. “Are you honestly writing your own Arctic memoirs as we speak?” 

“Not exactly. And I would certainly not write an official memoir of this expedition without your assistance. It is yours, not mine… no, here. See what I’ve been doing.” He stood up and placed the book on the table, leaning over it and opening at random to one of the earlier pages. This revealed an exquisitely detailed drawing of the ships in Baffin Bay, navigating among the icebergs. The silhouette of what must have been a whaling vessel could be made out in the far distance. “I have been compiling a visual account of the expedition as well as the written one.”

Francis stared. “Christ, James, that’s…” He had been told that James was a competent artist, of course, but he had never seen his work himself. And he certainly had not expected _this_.

“The last time we sighted another ship, in Baffin Bay,” James finished for him. He looked contemplatively at the scene. “It does seem rather disquieting to look at now, although that is not how I meant it at the time. Here,” he said, and moved to turn the page. 

__

Flipping through the book, Francis was convinced that there was no aspect of the expedition that James had neglected to document. Here were the men setting up an observatory on Beechey Island; then sketches of Goodsir's bird and plant specimens; and a portrait of Goodsir himself at work. All were accompanied by detailed written descriptions in James’s angular handwriting. There were portraits of many of the men from both ships, and all imaginable scenes of life above and below decks. James’s scenes alternated between joyful and tragic: the crews playing football on the ice, sledge parties leaving to hunt or to make observations, and the increasingly precarious position of _Terror_ upon the pressure ridge. He had even managed to represent the funeral of Sir John. 

__

“This is incredible, James,” Francis said, at length. “The printmakers will go mad for this, like they did for Frederick Beechey’s drawings in '21...of course you’re too young to remember that, though.” He couldn’t resist the jibe. 

__

James made a muffled sound in his throat. “I’ve seen the prints, Francis. How do you think I got the idea for the Baffin Bay drawing?” He rolled his eyes. “It was all very Romantic. I fear some of mine may be rather more dire.” 

__

“But it’s _true_ , James. You have everything here... how did you…?” 

__

“I do find myself with a surplus of time like everyone else, you know. I had to do much of it from memory, of course, but I find that the men are generally happy to let me sit and draw them if time allows. I can fade into the background and let them go about their work without interruption. It makes for a much more compelling scene.”

__

“You? Fade?” 

__

“Oh hush. Now I’ll come back to my point.” He took the book back and sat down by the window again. “My anthology is not complete.” 

__

“How so? You cannot draw the future, of course. I’m not sure it will be very picturesque, either.” 

__

“I don’t mean that.” He was looking Francis pointedly in the eyes. 

__

“Then what…? Oh, no. No.” 

__

“But I have managed to do portraits of all the other ranking officers! I didn’t want to do yours from memory. And so, here I—” 

__

“Oh good God, James." Francis's tone was caught between a laugh and an exasperated sigh. "Why would you want to do that now? I look like hell these days.”

__

“Oh, you know how the papers get hold of these things." James said this as if it were the most natural line of reasoning in the world. "You said so yourself. The Admiralty will release whatever they wish, and I suspect the _Illustrated London News_ will take to it with their characteristic enthusiasm, again. If they do it will look quite amiss for me to not have included a portrait of the expedition commander.”

__

Francis was certain that the reading public would not give a fig about the presence or absence of his portrait—for them it would always be Franklin’s Expedition, not Crozier’s—but he knew better than to dispute James when he was developing a grand narrative. “I already had to sit for that blasted daguerreotype at Lady Jane’s order. The papers can have that. The ice has been no friend of mine. And no one—well, you see if _your_ hair still curls like that at fifty-two.” He waved his hand vaguely in James’s direction. _Probably will_ , he thought, _damn the man_ , but that was not the point.

__

“If it’s your grey hair you’re worried about, I’m happy to inform you that your concern is misplaced." James crossed his legs and leaned back against the wall, with an air of complete certainty that was more endearing than it had any right to be. "You look...distinguished. Like you have stories you could tell—if you were so inclined to, of course, but no one but I need know how hopelessly miserly you are with words. Think of everything you’ve done in your career. If your appearance reflects that, what of it?”

__

“I’m fairly certain that “distinguished” just means “old,” James,” Francis cut in.

__

James waved away the interruption. “They’ll appreciate it all back in England when they paint your portrait. No one will want a hero who looks as though the world has not affected him.”

__

“Ross was not much more than thirty when they painted his portrait,” Francis pointed out, quite reasonably.

__

“Yes, and he well deserved everything that society made of him. He did, after all, make quite the heroic reappearance after so many years trapped in the ice—" He said this last sentence with such a pointed look at Francis that there was no way to miss his intended connection. "—But you’ll remember the artist had to drape that bearskin over him to exaggerate the heroic image. You, brother, will need no such affectations.”

__

“James, you’re thirty-five. Are you suggesting that you are less deserving because—“

__

“Oh, give it up, Francis. Let me have my moment, or I shall have to keep flattering you until you give in. Did you have pressing plans that involved anything other than sitting in this cabin all evening?”

__

“... no,” Francis conceded.

__

“Brilliant,” James said, and opened his book. 

__

\---

__

Francis felt himself terribly observed. Being the sole focus of attention in any situation made him feel open and exposed, and made his skin flush. It should not have bothered him, he thought, not here, but even being strictly observed by one man made him feel like he was falling apart, like bits of his being would shoot apart and scatter across the room. He looked around nervously in search of any distraction, but could settle on none. Of course it was all playing into James’s hands, he realized, what with him being silent and mostly still. 

__

“ _James_ ,” he finally spat out, in an exasperated voice. “This is intolerable. I can’t just sit here being stared at. I feel like I’m some sort of relic on display and it’s bloody unnerving. Will you just... _say something_?” 

__

James was biting his lip in concentration. “About what?” he asked, not looking up.

__

“Anything!” Francis hissed. 

__

Amused, James glanced around the room in apparent search of some topic. 

__

“Tea, then,” he said, and looked back at his work, smirking.

__

“What?” 

__

“Tea. Do you recall that when we first came aboard in ‘45, we were arguing about tea?” 

__

“Oh, that. Really James, I was not arguing with you. I was...acting exasperated in your general vicinity. The company sent you my stores but had not forgotten to send me the bill, for which reason I was understandably irritated.”

__

“I’m fairly certain that “irritation” was still directed at me,” countered James, still smirking down at his journal. 

__

“That was… well, that had nothing to do with the tea. I was...that is…” Francis trailed off, mumbling something about “magnetic science.”

__

“What?” James looked up again.

__

“I...I felt slighted, if you must know. The damned Admiralty put you in charge of magnetic observations and...well, that was my area of expertise and you had never been to the Arctic before. It was a gross misjudgment on my part. I didn’t know you. I’m sorry you… you thought I was angry at you over _tea_ this whole time?” 

__

James was laughing. “No matter, Francis. I didn’t want your tea anyway. I’m more of an Assam man myself.” 

__

“Well, you seem to be enjoying it this very minute.” 

__

James shot him a dark look from under his eyebrows. “I’m not even going to indulge you with an answer to that, Francis.” 

__

Francis smiled and leaned back in his chair. James really was a marvel of optimism. The man had as much to worry about as anyone else, if not more, and yet here he was reminiscing about earlier days of the expedition as if nothing had ever gone wrong. _I wonder how he’ll talk about it, if...when,_ Francis told himself, _when he makes it home. One rather thinks he’d say he was fond of being here._

__

“I’m glad I walked over here, after all,” James was saying. “What do you even do here, most nights? Doesn’t Thomas at least come and talk with you?”

__

“Sometimes,” he conceded. “But generally...well, you know how I spent most of my evenings until recently. I never was really in any condition to think about _doing_ anything. It’s been...well, it’s been different lately. I suppose I could start making my way through the ship’s library again, although that’s gone a bit stale after three years.”

__

“Sounds dreadfully boring, Francis. Perhaps I’ll have to walk over here more frequently and keep you company.”

__

Francis made an incredulous sound. “I’ll remember you said that in the next few days. The transfer of men off _Terror_ is nearly complete. We’ll all be berthing on _Erebus_ soon, and _then_ you’ll wish for nothing more than to be rid of me.”

__

“Nonsense.”

__

“I suffer from sleeplessness most nights, as you know. You’ll hear me through the wall, pacing about the cabin…”

__

“And what of it?”

__

“Well, I am certain that having me keep you up all night does not rank high on your current list of desires.”

__

“Nonsense, Francis,” James said again. He did not look up, but there was a characteristically mischievous smile playing about his lips.

__

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @franklins-leg for helping me edit this! 
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Fitzjames did indeed keep a prolific journal on the expedition, and was a talented artist. He sent some of his writing home from Greenland before the expedition disappeared. 
> 
> Based on his surviving journal and letters, he was very kind about all of his fellow expedition members. He was very interested in everything going on about ship, including helping Goodsir with collecting specimens. He wrote specifically that he hoped they would spend one winter at least in the ice for magnetic observations. 
> 
> It was required by the Admiralty that accounts of voyages, even officers’ private journals, be handed over to them as evidence of how the voyage had gone. Letters were exempt. 
> 
> The drawing of the ships in Baffin Bay was inspired by this [ famous print,](https://jcb.lunaimaging.com/luna/servlet/detail/JCB~1~1~3953~6250004:Iceberg-in-Baffin-s-Bay,-July-1819-) from Parry’s 1819 expedition:
> 
> The expedition truly was seen for the last time by a whaler in Baffin Bay, in July 1845. 
> 
> The story about Crozier’s tea shipment, and his frustration at Fitzjames being put in charge of magnetic observations, comes from his [last letter to James Clark Ross](https://canadianmysteries.ca/sites/franklin/archive/text/CrozierRoss_en.htm). The tea shipment in question was from Fortnum and Mason. I have no idea what Fitzjames did or didn't personally prefer (although it's probably documented somewhere), but since the Assam company was pretty new, and he'd traveled all across Eurasia, I figured he'd have discovered it -- and it's my favorite tea, so I had to have him agree with me!


End file.
